i've been homesick for you since we met
by ten.years.only.with.you
Summary: Call me Puck he tells the first woman that hires him in LA. It sounds wrong on her tongue and before she's out of earshot, he says, Noah. My name is Noah. P/Q


He hears through the glee grapevine that she's double majoring in dance and law. Facebook tells him that she has a good deal of friends, all with sun kissed hair that matches her own or wear blazers with big buckled belts in the middle. The constant email loop between the graduated seniors reveals that she is pretty damn busy studying because she never checks the damn thing or at least never has the free time to respond.

Often times when the world outside his window seems big and huge with the sparkling city lights barely grazing his closed shutters, dancing patterns on his blinds, he considers what she might be doing in that very instant.

[-]

The first job he gets, he tells them that he actually would prefer to go by Puck. The lady raises her perfectly sculpted eyebrows at this, admires the hard lines cut into his abdomen, gives a once over of his arms in his worn and weary green collared shirt that she bought him as a graduation gift in May. Shoving it into his arms, wrapped exquisitely in neon red McKinley Titan colored paper, with a simple note reading f_or Puck_.

The loops of her cursive writing was the very first thing he stuffed in a duffel bag when packing for LA, right before the framed photo of the glee club with Schuester, his letterman jacket, his guitar, and a gnarly collection of picks and shot glasses. All the things he deems important in life. Feeling like a dumbass in his tiny mental institution white walled apartment, he places it on the fireplace mantel next to the picture.

A week later, the Santa Añas sends the navy and cream card flying off onto his chest while he sleeps in restless silence of buzzing cars and honking horns and crashing waves that he imagines would be peaceful. Waking up bleary eyed, with it flipped over, the hidden inscription on the back reads quite simply so much that it makes him all homesick and nostalgic for high school and Lima and the choir room. And her.

_You got this, Puckerman. Love, Q._

The woman in question with her silver string bikini, licks her upper lip and tells him that fine, he can go by Puck. It sounds so wrong in her mouth that as she struts away placing one silicone heel in front of the other, hips swaying from side to side with sass, he shouts out that _actually, call me Noah_.

[-]

The first time he goes out in LA, he meets up with newly single Mike Chang, and they flash their fakes at the bouncer of some club in downtown, smirks dancing on their lips. They each drink cheap beer and do jelly shots in plastic test tubes, staring and judging the talent that comes at them in all directions.

Mike's got his hand on the hip of a young Asian girl that looks so much like Tina with the raven hair streaked with auburn whorls and a large laugh that makes the room go still, the way her eyes crinkle and his own face goes pale as he sees the recognition register in Mike's face, throws down some money and nods at Puck to get the hell out of dodge. The club spits them out on the mean streets of LA and Chang's breathing is heavy, not quite settling in his chest, the hands shaking in a way that Puck hasn't seen before, eyes darting nervously in a trademark of guilt and betrayal before he tells him that _yo, man, I_ _um,_ before trailing off while Puck gives a grim nod and walks the man back to his apartment, shuts the door behind himself and goes to find a gas station to stand outside of.

Moments later his phone vibrates in his pocket, clicking a few buttons and reading the text from Mike, his eyes falter and his fingers pause over the reply.

_You still love her too, don't you?_

[-]

Puck goes and finds the next girl he can with ivy eyes and sunshine blond hair and fucks the girl senseless with his eyes shut, pretends it's her the entire time and prays that she can hear him all the way across the country calling out her name.

[-]

One Saturday afternoon in late October, he opens the email thread, rubbing his eyes, kneading his tense muscles in his legs from a long nap after working till close that morning at the bar on the corner that hired him despite his lack of age or experience or what have you, but he's still a sex shark, so that's got to count for something, he supposes, pads of his rough and tumble hands threatening to dance on the keyboard.

_Anyone going to be in Lima for Thanksgiving?_

_Love you all. Q_

Most of the old gang has replied with a resounding yes, thousands of exclamation marks and smiley faces peppering their letters. He hesistates. There is barely enough money in his bank account to pay rent and bills, to go out on the weekends with Mike and pretend that they are flourishing in a city that beats them into submission on a regular basis, but still his body has a mind of its own, and the words._ See you losers in November_ appear on the screen before him. He clicks the send button before he can change his mind.

She replies back almost instantly, and he wonders if this is the first time in months that she can considered to deign to look at their constant wars of Rachel's Broadway, the army worries of Finn, fashion crap of Kurt's, Mercedes' singing, Santana and cheerleading skirts, his own shit out west, and counters with _these guys in my class suck at badassness, no competition_.

Puck grins like an idiot.

[-]

Two days before he leaves for Ohio, his Skype dings out an annoying fucking message from New York. Sighing heavily, he pushes accept and half moon smiles when Kurt and Rachel appear on his computer screen shouting countdowns and hellos _and omg can you not wait until we all get together and drink wine coolers and eat at Breadstixx? _

Their excitement is contagious and he listens to them while he tosses clothes and shoes and sweaters, that old beat up leather jacket, into his duffel, nodding when appropriate, rolling his eyes at their arguments over who is going to spend the most time with Finn, biting his tongue when they talk about Mike and Tina, scouting a plan to get into the choir room at school and coat it in a steady sheet of TP.

And then it happens. _Noah_, she asks (she will forever be the only one of his friends to call him by his real name, bitch), and he cringes because he knows what is coming next and honestly, come on Berry because high school is over and even though he knows he isn't really an adult, he's independent and got this shit locked up and he doesn't need to hear another soliloquy about _her_.

Yelling a see you soon, he begins to slam the laptop down but not before he hears he squawk in protest, with drama worthy of Streisand about him and Quinn and bad decisions and three thousand miles. He doesn't need to hear what he already knows. Not that it's going to stop him or anything.

[-]

Him and Mike catch the same flight to Louisville from LA. Sam and Artie drive down and get them from the airport where there is a whole lot of super sappy shit like hugging and high fives and bromancing and he can't kinda ever believe that he left this to go live in a one room apartment that is nowhere near close to the ocean and forty five minutes by car from his closest friend in the city. And then he remembers what she said about him and he tells them all of his and Mike's weekend horror stories and exploits, leaving out the graphics and the almost breakdowns they have every other time about their ex-girlfriends.

Unlucky for him, they can read his mind. Sam catches his eye in the rearview mirror.

_Nervous_, he asks already knowing the answer to the question.

_Nah bro_, is the reply that he vomits out with what he hopes is certainty. Mike's hand on his back and Artie's head shake let him know that his heart is on his sleeve and he ain't got no hope hiding it.

[-]

They all meet up at the auditorium the night before Thanksgiving. Finn's somehow got a key, probably because he's always going to be the golden boy, and he opens the back door to the space. It seems smaller, denser, more disappointing than he used to think. But then he watches from his spot on the stage, long legs dangling over the sides, feet brushing the scraped paint as his friends spin circles and sing loudly, harmonizing, bopping and rolling to the movements of the music, the rhythm of the notes that there will never be another place more like home than this one.

Rachel squeals loudly, interrupting his thoughts as he glances up, fingers lazily drifting their way up and down the frets of Sam's borrowed guitar to see her standing in the threshold, two bottles of something strong in each hand and playful twitch on her lips. Her hair is a bit longer now, still wavy, kissing the skin of her collarbone, skirt of her dress riding up her long legs covered by wooly tights, bright red sweater matching her scarlet mouth. She smiles at him, rushes up, hurling herself onto his form and with each curvature of her waist, the familiar feel of her hips under his hand, the way she glides so simply under his chin like she was a missing piece made to be there.

She pulls back, examines him from head to toe and leaves the outline of her crimson mouth on his cheek. _You look good_, she tells him, shaking the bottle of bourbon in his eyeline, grinning so big that the lines flirt with her poison ivy green orbs.

He falls in love with her all over again. And he's not even sorry about it.

[-]

He doesn't see her again until Friday night. Schue indulged all of them at his choir room's expense which has solo cups and sheet music strewn around it like karaoke lost the battle to former champions and he's helping pick up the last survivors next to the piano. Her sunshine tumbleweeds slip into her eyes as she sits on the piano bench, not offering to help him, merely kicking stuff out of the way and giggling while he pretends to huff and puff, but he's really just glad she's there. Telling him woeful tales of college, all the douche bags with madras pants and gunners that make Rachel Berry look like a Buddhist monk and the best part of her voice classes by herself all alone in a room full of empty seats she hopes that one day she will be able to fill.

His hands find familiar sheet music, rifles them in her face, and she nods, lips pursed. Licking his mouth, he starts out slow and steady, confident that she'll join in when she's ready. Hands tucked neatly into the arms of her sweater, falsetto rivaling next to his, eyes mischievously probing his own, scarlet pout in a tight little oval. They walk around the piano, flit in between chairs, twist over the tiles. Wolf whistles and cat calls and uproarious clapping come from a riveted audience. She blushes pearly pink in her cheek, runs a manicured hand down his arm.

Glancing down at the sheet music he reads it. _I've been homesick for you since we first met._

[-]

His flight back to LA is on Saturday late night. Like four thirty in the morning. It was all he was able to afford to still go home and make it back in time for his gig at the bar for Sunday brunch because drunks fucking love waffles and hash browns and bloody marys. Dicks. Before shoving all his nicely folded clean laundry (thanks, mom!) in his suitcase and catching a ride with Sam to the airport, he heads on over to the football stadium.

LA doesn't have seasons. Not that he misses Ohio or some dumb shit like that, but he misses fall. The leaves trickling down in their variety of colors, football practice in the crisp air, driving home in his truck with the windows open to feel the breeze on his face, pumpkin tossing on Halloween, eggnog and pie, girls wearing so many layers that you have to peel them off to find the gold underneath. It's petty, he understands to be ungrateful for where he is when he only ever wanted to get out of where he was. Some days are just harder to process than others. The sky is a deep November indigo black dotted with stars that are drowned out by the lights of the football field, metal bleachers frozen in their homes, grass dying under the touch of a coming winter. And her.

She's there. Sitting in the stands, wrapped in a caramel colored coat, yellow hat shielding yellow hair, crimson pout visible from this distance, November wind running its hands through her wild mane, caressing the curve of her neck. Knowing that she is being observed, she deliberately languidly turns and meets his stare. He wonders if she is thinking about him and her and where this all began and ended and fell apart.

His feet take him before he understands what is happening, hers as well carry her along until she is right under his nose, peering up under buttery lashes, hot breath fanning across his cheek, mingling with his own. She's so beautiful it hurts. Puck clears his throat, avoids her gaze until her gloved hand drifts to his cheek, pulling his chin, her fingers never once leaving his skin, the other hand clasped on the hip bone of his left side. He moves first, pressing his forehead against hers, inhaling deeply the intoxicating nectar of lily, jasmine, violet musk, his fingers under the fabric of her coat afraid to let go in fear that she might disappear, fade away into nothing, fade away from him and his heart will unlearn how to beat.

They stay like that for a long time until the horizon lightens and he watches with eyes on her back as she walks off from him another chance in his life gone and lost, a single envelope lightly weighted with the feel of the world in his right hand as he sees her melt into the night and doubts that he'll ever love anything else this much in his entire life.

[-]

Two days later in his little mental patient hospital apartment, he's half in his bed, half on the floor the unopened letter on his pillow, daring to be sprung. Gingerly, he tears the navy and cream, sees her _Puck _slashed upon the envelope flutter to the hardwood and reads the gently abrasive cursive for not the first time.

_When we're ready. Love, Q_

Puck sleeps through the night for the first time since he moved to LA. He finally has something to look forward to.


End file.
